World Run Kelley White Hell’s Angels are drinking coffee on Sunday morning. They are pumping gas at the Texaco. They’ve rolled up packs and tied down bundles. They’re calling up their wives and kids on cellular phones. They’re combing their hair in the little side view mirror and making ponytails where it’s gone thin. One slows and waves when he makes a tight turn wiping donut crumbs out of his beard. They’re going home, it’s morning, just a little too early for looking tough and calling a fight. And what is home but a place to travel? A place you’re never in and can’t quite find.

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